(This has nothing to do with bdsm but it’s too serious and disturbing to put on my vanilla blog. It’s about something that happened at the very beginning of my summer, in early June.)

The only light in the room were bars of sun which entered in through the few porous areas the densely closed curtains allowed. One, maddeningly intangible ray fell right in my palm. The enforced twilight gave every face in the crowded room an expressionless mask, yet simultaneously we all knew every changing fleck of emotion on every face and what every eye was tracking . That clock, the incessant ticking like her impatient tapping fingers. Various hyper-emotional hands would squeeze my unresponsive arm, or uninvited fingers would grasp my shrinking hand. Women who I barely knew pelted my cheek with kisses that felt like hail. My hand would start to wipe off their lipstick before I reminded myself that I was too old to do that. The conversation was artificial and I listened to my own detached voice. Desperate people clutching each other through conversation, the actual content seemed irrelevant. We were cells commingling, congealing to form a scab to fill the family wound. One slow heartbeat was being shared.

That clock.

I had to get out, and as I did I felt their eyes hissing at me.

My mom’s voice 30 feet away instantly grabbed the back of my shirt and forced me to the kitchen. If the kitchen is the engine room of the house than she is the dumb grating clanking noise coming from the antiquated engine. Yet she knows things. Everyone’s mind is a drawer she rifled through. She is a switchboard operator who pries in on the most private internal conversations. Her hand touches my arm and squeezes. Far down below me I see her emotive eyes and she tells me

“having you here this summer is helping us cope.”

Rage.

She had just claimed the summer that I had spent 3 years saving and working for, and it had not even started yet. The summer that was now not just mine to ruin. What really pissed me off though was the word “us” and her fucking hand holding my arm, holding me in place. With one swift movement she guided me around and prodded me toward that room again. Back to that womb with the dead fetus inside.

As I sat back down in the same chair, that bar of light was a foot closer, far to my left, and out of comfortable reach. The clock sounded like the angry tapping of her finger, banging in Morse Code to “choose.” Some kid peered in the room but was immediately ushered away and the door snapped shut.

By 4 am the next morning I had already packed what was all mine, which could barely fill 2 suitcases. It wasn’t even morning, yet as I walked to my car I noticed the growing illumination in the sky, the sound of a distant car, and muting of that clock. My parent’s lightless two bedroom windows looked like gouged eyes. I pulled out of the long driveway and abandoned them all.

If your head is currently coming out of some chick's birth canal, I will give you a rousing applause. i mean a new human being entering into the world, a new life that effects everyone around them is a significant event.


If that bag of fleshy goo survives a year from shaken baby syndrome or whatever, I will buy your powdered butt a gift. It is deserving of a golf clap cause hey you have proven to have staying power.

if you have survived close to a quarter of a century don't tell me about your fucking birthday. it's a fund drive and that's fucking all. Gifts given on that day are done out of obligation and pressure and the only gift that has any meaning is one given on some random day. It's like when your fat old ass aunt asks you to give her a kiss on her cheek. Hey bitch, i don't volunteer to kiss your cheek for a reason. You smell like geriatric perfume and tuna fish and your cheek collagen has been reduced to the consistency of snot.

Time for a summer break. Finally, I get to travel a little. I hope you all have a blast this summer. Especially you Princess Ceara.

My friend recently described me as “intensely stoic.” What a beautifully concise way to describe a passionate person who is imprisoned in the culture of precaution I was brought up in. When I walk around this home even when there are family get-togethers it feels like a ghost town or background filler in a poorly produced play and they all are some stilted actors mimicking human behavior and babbling to give the appearance of real life . Everyone walks around here with their titles, their surgical gloves on, their resumes pushed in every conversation, their snobbishness, and the intensity in their stoicness is gone. As long as my intensity is still lit, there’s hope I won’t grow up to be them.

What does this have to do with s/m? This house is where fetishes are born. Repression sticks to your soul here like humidity to one‘s skin. One day you read a girls blog, a girl who is the apocalypse in human form, and you see how she has the talent to sense the weakest point on a man’s psyche, dig her pretty nails into that spot and skin him down to his bare male necessities. Until you can all but hear his screams coming from some locked room in the basement where he is alone with her. I want to be lost in that intensity

Surprisingly, lately I’ve come to look at her and notice how beautiful she is. I always figured the closer I’d get the less she’d take on any coherent appearance, like some giantess who loses human form in any context if you get too close to her because her overwhelming presence would be too huge for me to take in. What she’s become is photoshopped completely in my mind. She’s perfect, because she’s extraordinary in real life, and my need for her to be perfect does the rest.

I once asked my grandparents a very rude question. They kissed and when they were done I asked them “Do either one of you realize you are kissing a really old person.” my grandfather, always gentle with my obnoxiousness simply said he “cannot and will never be able to see the wrinkles.”

Check out Princess Ceara's newest clip, "Heartbreaker."

Cearaism. I know that sounds corny and every domme has eventually reached to the very back of her closet and plucked out the worn “ism” shoved it to the ass end of their name and declared themselves a religion. Personally, after spending 18 years and some additional hard time living with jebus freaks, cearaism makes a whole lot more sense. First, the bible is a yawner. There isn’t a laugh in it. Wouldn’t god want to dispatch his wisdom in a delightfully breezy page turner that incidentally infused you with his wisdom by the end? I dare anyone to read Princess Ceara’s blog and not be engaged by the ongoing gripping tale that effortlessly educates the reader with many important lessons. Such as anyone who resists her has his spine turn limp as a body nailed to a cross, forks over huge portions of their net worth, and then goes stark raving mad.

God is kind of a loser. I mean the dude watches us all the time? That’s not only creepy but get a life bro. Ceara is often too busy lately to talk to us on niteflirt for 4.99 a minute.

Jesus can turn water into wine. Ceara can turn trash into cash. That’s a push

Christmas is bullshit. You want the joy of giving? Watch her clip "interactive tributing" and bust a nut when you hit the tribute button. It’s a lot better than shopping with a bunch of stress wracked housewives fighting for the right to buy some 100 dollar toy for some brat who will look at it for 2 minutes and then throw it onto his toy landfill at home.

God is an attention whore. What’s with the believe in me or else you are going to spend your life in eternal damnation? Gandhi was a hindu. So the christian god gave Gandhi an eternal life sentence in the fiery pits of hell for having a different opinion? He fervently advocates against killing each other but burning alive the bad ones forever is just peachy? Nobody even believes God’s lame threats of hell. You want real life or death consequences? Ask ceara to blackmail you. If you subsequently cross her, you may want to buy her “Die for me” clip.

All religion is blackmail. What they all encompass is giving yourself over altruistically and completely to an entity better than yourself. The only way you can do that in reality is if you take both your middle fingers, form them into a cross, shove them in jesus’s face. Watch ceara’s newest clip “religious blackmail”. Let it fill you with fanaticism; give over the last vestiges of your human dignity that keep you from complete devotion to her.

Sometimes I miss you badmistress69, saidicmaitress4u and all your cam comrades. We grew apart. You could barely speak English, I’d clown you in front of 100 pervs in your chatroom, rile those guys until they were a bunch of agitated lab monkeys and right when you were red faced from rage and about to ban me, I’d order your show and ask you to brutalize me. Ever see the movie Hostel? The resulting cam-shows were like that.

It was a simpler time.

Most the time though I’m happy and clinging to ceara’s leg like some scared koala cub because I don’t want to go back that humiliation fetish world, where hate is the most valuable currency. I can’t transfer this servitude fetish onto anyone else. Servitude is an emotional fetish while humiliation was lust driven. What connected me to ceara is her blog, her thoughts, her humor, her intelligence. Her.

Most the time I don’t think about what she looks like. It’s a psychic connection built over years of reading her blog. This psychological war of attrition waged one entry, one comment, over a lot of time, broke me.

However, when she goes so does this servitude fetish. I’ll be airdropped right back into the wild.

Do you guy’s ever even stop to think what your audience looks like while they are watching your clips? 90% of us are hunkered down in a fragile safe zone, one eye on a locked door, earphones attached to speakers set at half volume. Every external noise sounds like his girlfriend’s/roommate’s muffled gasp or expletive or his door furtively creeping open.

If we moan too loudly, we pause the clip, rip our headphones off, and do a quick damage assessment. Some listen to see if their obese wife is still snoring. Others notice their family portraits and turn them around so they don’t have to feel their family’s innocent eyes burning incessant unbearable judgment into them. when the wave of paranoia dies down, fapping resumes.


I’ve seen more clips than just about anyone. Humiliation based clips, from a princess telling a guy to fuck an inflated sheep to one that demanded the viewer to stick his dick in high powered vacuum cleaner attachment. Yet I’ve never seen one that takes in consideration the most obvious and nearly universal precautions your customers take when watching your product. The earphones, the locked door, the drawn shades… This is how we keep the real humiliation at bay.

Tell us remove the headphones, press our speakers up to our ear and put the volume on its lowest setting. Then gradually throughout the clip coax us into raising the volume, and maybe we’ll sub spaced out enough to actually snort like a pig or open the window and scream “I’ll suck dwarf cock for Princess Ceara.”



Make us unlock the door. It’s a simple way to add edge.

Make us surround ourselves with our family pictures. I know this sounds lame but trust me having my father’s face look at me while I do some of the things rene has gotten me to do, like punch myself straight in the face, is traumatizingly humiliating.

Etc etc

I’m always getting clip ideas and forgetting them so maybe I’ll keep this as an ongoing subject.

It was only a few years ago our almighty all powerful angel was an unwanted whore on a cam site menu. I can just see angel sitting in her bare camwhore den, body definition of a bloated dead seal, vibrator with fresh unused batteries at the ready, her pouting full face as member names flitted on her screen, gave her a once over, and vanished.

As she came to grips with the reality that she could not make minimum wage by selling her body she stumbled on the domme scene. If these freaks will pay to eat their own turds, maybe, she thought, they might pay to talk to me.

Ceara has a new clip out “jb’s exposure.”


Anyway, here is angel’s most recent fail.

1. She made all her hypnosis mp3s on her website available for FREE in wav format.

2. As word spread, people actually believed this was her intent because there is no way she could not know what was going on. Once there is a reasonable expectation to believe you gave away your product all legal copyright claims are lifted. It’s considered a gift. Don’t blame your webmaster. It’s your responsibility to make certain he did an adequate job.

3. Angel is like the woman who is too ugly to be sexually harassed. Nobody wanted her work. As one guy wrote “ This is seventh rate trance music not hypnosis.”

All these years and you’re still just a fail whale screwing yourself in your ass.

Shortly after I received a surprisingly complimentary email from Isabella Valentine, a maniac emailed me an excessively long, confused and fanatically hateful tirade. I love both emails equally. However, he made a few comments, that I paraphrased, which are worth addressing if only to link this entry when I get sent the same tired comments and questions.


“Servitude to a financial domme is tributing her money not copying and pasting a link.”



No, tributing IS financial domination or a douchebaggy synonym for payment. Servitude implies labor in place of payment.

You can no more tell me when I’m humiliated or the second later when I’m in sub-space than you can tell me when I have a feeling of servitude. Servitude is a distinct physical feeling.

“If you aren’t into financial domination then why are you hanging around here.”

Here???? I’m on livejournal because I’m writing a blog and I read some domme blogs here because I’m a sub. This whole financial domme label is bullshit. They call themselves that because they are advertising their high end product. Most of them are primarily clip dommes now and just about all of them are your one stop shopping source for fetish entertainment .

“you are a loser who has no life for spending so much time writing a blog here.”

Yeah sorry I don’t get why spending a 5-15 minutes to write a paragraph or two here every 3 days makes me a loser but creating a disposable lj account to write a behemoth rant to somebody you think is a loser to tell him he is a loser in any way makes me the loser.

Is your point really that anyone who writes a personal journal has no life? A journal isn’t time consuming.  you thought dump and go.

“you are an attention whore.”

If I wanted attention I’d still be on twitter. The people who complain about my blog are the ones who have to seek me out just to see it. I don’t spam myself to anyone.

“You are unbalanced and possibly dangerous.”

Taking conflict out of s/m is like taking fear out of a horror movie. There needs to be tension for it to be interesting.

Look at things objectively, I’ve been around for a long time now. Have I ever threatened anyone physically? I’ve written nearly 200 posts, 600 tweets, and hundreds of comments; have I ever been emotionally unstable enough to leave even one traceable bit of information? Even when I’m in subspace, I’m in control.

People often write blogs when they are in an emotional extreme so it’s easy for others to get a distorted perspective of who they are in reality. Some days I have happy moments and the next day I may have a few a brief period of discontentment. How does that make me any different from anyone else?

Spent the day with the fam and some old friends. My mom showed me pictures of her back in the day photo disasters, all came included with a laugh that would make a car alarm seem like white noise. Dad the inveterate grammar nazi gets a twisted testicle whenever I, intentionally, end a sentence with a preposition. He lives on that thin line between an uptight god fairing man with a compulsion for preaching and a cult leader. I smiled and nodded like a I just got off the banana boat as he sermonized. My friend's are ok, but I miss gf and basically feel claustrophobic here. Maybe I do have multiple personality syndrome like katana once told me. Was it just yesterday I was happy?

Meanwhile the house is so quiet. solemn. vigilant. i can't jerk off in this house. i can do it without any shame in housing where people are nearly stepping all over each other but here every whack sounds like dinosaur footsteps.

I'm posting this instead of the humiliation scene I wrote to promote ceara's new clip "jerk, for me pig."